


Why?

by SnowyDesolation



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23793811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyDesolation/pseuds/SnowyDesolation
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes, with memories restored, visits the grave of one Steven Grant Rogers... whom he'd placed there.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 10





	Why?

“Why?” the Soldier whispered to nothing other than the crisp air, for what seemed like the millionth time. He couldn’t understand. Sure, the basics were clear enough - painfully clear, at that; a few assholes brainwashed him into killing the man. But why? Why did every little thing that lead up to this... this fucked up situation have to happen? Why, all the way back to why did the blond have to be such a fucking idiot and volunteer to be a lab experiment instead of staying home? James would have died in the war, certainly. Or maybe he would have withstood Zola’s testing, and would have become HYDRA’s puppet, anyway. But Steve would have been safe, at least.  
No. That wasn’t right.  
The question should be why wasn’t James more careful? That was the real question. Because he killed Steve Rogers. And not because Steve took a serum, but because he was a cocky enough idiot who picked up the shield and tried to be the hero, instead of kicking it off to Captain America, who actually knew how to use it.  
It was James who was too goddamn weak to get out of HYDRA’s grasp for seventy fucking years, and it was his own hand that punched the life out of Steve, and it was his fault - so he had convinced himself. He knew full well that he was brainwashed, and forced to do it; manipulated into thinking Steve was an enemy whom he didn’t know, and had to kill. The facts didn’t make him feel better about it, though. At all. If anything, it made him feel shittier, on a whole new level, because he was too weak to escape or disobey HYDRA for seventy years. That’s a whole lifetime, for a normal person. An entire lifetime of murder and torture and he couldn’t do a damned thing about it. It was pathetic.  
But this was about Steve. Who was dead. Six feet underground, now. Because of his own best friend.  
Standing at the gate, he stared at Steve’s grave - god, the words ‘Steve’s grave’ made James’ heart drop - hesitating to get any closer. How was he to face his best friend who he had murdered?  
It was bad enough when he had just seen him, at the wake, in the open casket. Steve was always rather pale, but oh god, every last shred of colour was gone from his skin, and he was left looking as white as a sheet of paper. He didn’t get to stay long, obviously, since he was a very wanted man; most everyone there would be suspecting James look like some ragged old man, unexpecting of him to be disguised beneath a suit, a fedora, and a pair of leather gloves. However, that didn’t grant him an infinite amount of time. He was hiding in plain sight in front of a bunch of people who were trying to hunt him down, he’d be caught if he mingled. But the sight of Steve’s pale, lifeless, soulless, beaten body, no matter how brief it was, would haunt his dreams (and consciousness, for that matter) for the rest of his life. Especially since he had caused it.  
It had been eight days since then. It was about time he finally visit the grave, right? There were some things he needed to say...  
Slowly, he forced his legs to move, walking himself over to the still somewhat freshly placed rectangle of dirt that buried the hero. The Soldier stood at the end of it, careful not to disturb the Earth where he lay; unlike a few others obviously hadn’t. Assholes.  
“Steve,” he slowly began, his voice cracking.  
That was the first time he had ever said his name... Saying it let in a wave of guilt.  
“I was wondering what you might do if you could hear me... if you could reply. I... I hope you don’t mind, I came to talk.” He paused, as if he might get an answer in return.  
He never would.  
“I remember you. I remember... I remember almost everything, I think. Some things are kind of hazy... wish I could ask you what’s real and what isn’t. I wish there was a lot we could talk about...” Trailing off, silence filled the air, except for the occasional gust of wind blowing the leaves about. He wished they could talk, and wished Steve could answer some of the burning questions he had... but, that would never be able to happen.   
“I wish I could say that I’d take it all back if I could do it over, but...” But he wasn’t in control of anything he did. ... But what if he was? What if he had challenged HYDRA? Tried to fight them, disobey them. What if he had done anything? Would it have helped? Would Steve be alive?  
No...  
Reaching up, James placed his hand on his own cheek.   
“That man on the bridge. Who was he?”  
“You met him earlier this week on an assignment.”  
“I knew him.”  
Beneath his hand, he could feel the sting of where he had been smacked, for... for trying. Had he tried before?  
He sighed.  
“All I have are these words and they seem so goddamn useless. They can’t help me get you back.” Kicking away some of the leaves, James sat down on the grass. “I want you to know... if I could, if there was anything I could do, I’d do anything to have you back. Alive. Even if you hated me. I just– I know, I was supposed to protect you and keep you safe, and god, I’ve never wanted anything more than to have you safe. I’m so sorry, Steve.”  
At the last bit, the Soldier made a face. “Sorry,” he repeated in disgust. It sounded like such a worthless word when he said it. It was a worthless word. The hell did it mean? Sorry wouldn’t bring Steve back. Sorry wouldn’t fix anything. The only purpose saying sorry served was to have some false faith to fall back on that apologizing meant forgiveness, and he could sleep better at night, but that was far from possible.  
Dropping his head, he fisted his hands in the hair he still hadn’t cut. “Fuck!” If he had changed any of the choices he had made... if he had not picked up that shield, or if he had thrown it to Steve. If he could have ever escaped within any of those seventy years. If he had chosen to disobey his orders. If he had fought. If he had thought. If he had done anything. “I can’t live with myself.”  
Steven Grant Rogers, written on the gravestone. Reading it, all James could think of was that scrawny blond punk from the 30's. The kid James had grown up with, laughed with, cried with, fought with, lived with. It hurt a thousand times worse picturing the short, boney kid’s body being the one James’ metal fist slammed into again and again, until it was lifeless. Though, it was, on some level, the same body. The ‘old Steve’ was the one James had grown to love.  
“Some things I know. I don’t know how I know ‘em, but they just kinda feel right. Other things I do remember. And some things I just don’t know. But one thing I am absolutely, one hundred percent positive of, more than anything else... is that I really did love you. And if I couldn’t change any of my decisions leading up to this moment, I’d have told you that. I love you. I think I always have known it. My memories of you... I remember how I felt about them, too. And I always thought you were the most stupid, most admirable, most beautiful thing, and I was so lucky to have been able to call you my friend.”  
He sighed. He wasn’t sure what he had hoped he’d gain from visiting. Or maybe he wasn’t supposed to gain anything, maybe it was just for Steve’s sake. Would he even know? Probably not.  
Death was such a peculiar thing. Where was Steve? In some afterlife? Reborn? Just... not existing anymore? Whatever the case was, more than likely, he wouldn’t hear the Soldier’s words. And James really didn’t know if the visit would be make himself feel better or worse.  
He’d killed his best friend.  
He was dead.  
Gone.  
Forever.  
Just... like... that.  
And it was his fault.  
If he never felt better about it again, well, good.

The brunette stood to his feet again, looking down at the grave. “I don’t care about me. I guess you could say ‘old habits die hard,’ because my safety hasn’t exactly been top priority for the past seventy years. Even if I did care about my safety, I don’t know what difference that would make, I’ve practically been to hell and back and that in itself is enough to fuck me up to insanity and uselessness. I barely sleep, and sometimes I think I’m seeing things. I am seeing things. Fuck if I know, anymore. I’ve got the entire world wanting me dead, and I’m too compromised to fight. Look,” he tried again, growing frustrated after having lost his point and getting sidetracked to an undesirable topic. “I don’t care about me. So I’m not gonna go out hiding. But I ain’t gonna let some kid shoot me with his first round of bullets, either. I’m not the guy you used to know. But what I’m trying to say is... despite everything I’ve been through, and everything that is coming for me, I promise, I will try to be a man that you would like to still call your friend.”  
With that, he turned on his heel to leave, but paused, looking back over his shoulder at the grave. “Rest in peace, Steve. You deserve it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I've done this with every otp I've ever had. I just love angst.
> 
> I wrote this 5 years ago, just found it, so here you go ~  
> Obviously timed around just after TWS period, if Bucky had actually killed Steve on the helicarrier before it blew.
> 
> (◕ᴗ◕✿)


End file.
